


Coming Home

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, fix it fic?, post 4x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 23:35:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17887250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: It’s over. It’s finally over.Quentin stands in the doorway, watching over Eliot’s sleeping form, still somehow at awe of the rise and fall of his chest. There’s still a stressed furrow between his brow, even though he’s been unconscious for hours. But, Quentin’s sure it’s something that’ll fade with time. Or, he hopes, it is. He crosses his arms, and rests his head against the door frame. God. It’d been so close.He swallows thickly, and tries not to think about all the times he almost lost him.—Or Eliot gets to be brave.





	Coming Home

It’s over. It’s  _ finally _ over.  

Quentin stands in the doorway, watching over Eliot’s sleeping form, still somehow at awe of the rise and fall of his chest. There’s still a stressed furrow between his brow, even though he’s been unconscious for hours. But, Quentin’s sure it’s something that’ll fade with time. Or, he hopes, it is. He crosses his arms, and rests his head against the door frame. God. It’d been so close. 

He swallows thickly, and tries not to think about all the times he almost lost him.

It’s easier said than done. Because Eliot’s alive. But he almost wasn’t. Quentin had almost gotten him killed so many times. But he’s here. Asleep in his own bed, in his own body.  _ Alive _ . He should leave. Stop staring at him like some creep. But, he can’t look away. God, to be honest, he hasn’t been able to look away from Eliot for years. Even after the rejection. In every empty room he’s looked for him, even when he knew he wouldn’t be there. Every morning started with his gaze darting around the room, seeking him out. 

And when the monster.  _ Took _ him.

God, that’d—

_ No _ . It doesn’t matter anymore. The monsters dead. Eliot’s alive.

“Are you just going to keep staring at me like a Grade A Creepaholic, or are you going to come lay down with me?” Eliot’s voice is ruff, though soft, as he twists his neck to look over his shoulder at Quentin knowingly.

Quentin swallows, feels his heart skip a bit when he meets Eliot’s gaze, and shrugs unapologetically. “Sorry,” He says. It does probably creep Eliot out how much Quentin cares. But Eliot doesn’t actually believe in Quentin’s feelings, so what’s it matter? He’ll just shrug it away, like he always did. Because Quentin’s not . . .  _ Not _ . 

“Don’t be sorry. Come spoon me.” 

A soft little chuckle forces its way out as Quentin rolls his eyes and pushes away from the doorframe to join him on the bed. He climbs on, and before he can even think to wrap an arm around Eliot’s waist, Eliot’s twisting around to face him, and grabbing onto the lapels of Quentin’s shirt. His eyes are soft and sleep riddled, but there’s something on his face that’s familiar—that, surprisingly, Quentin can’t place. Can’t remember where or when he’s seen this particular look.

“Hi,” Quentin breathes, moving to rest his hand on Eliot’s hip. Tries to ignore the way his brain keeps asking if this is okay. If Eliot didn’t want them to touch, he wouldn’t have turned around, right? This is fine. They’ve cuddled before. This isn’t Quentin taking advantage of the situation. Not just because he wouldn’t do that—but, because—no. Because he wouldn’t do that. Not on purpose, at least. His brow furrows, as he looks down at the negative space between them.

_ Is _ he taking advantage of Eliot right now? 

“You’re spiraling.” 

“You can’t hear my thoughts.” 

Eliot huffs out a breath of warm air that washes over Quentin’s face—smells of chocolate and morning breath—before adjusting to bring up his other arm, and trace Quentin’s jaw with his fingertip. “No,” He agrees, “but I can read them.” His finger moves on, leaving little tingling warmth along Quentin’s skin, to trade the folds in Quentin’s furrowed brow. “Right here.” 

“I’m just worried.” 

Eliot nods, leaning in, and letting his hand slide down, to rest gently on the side of Quentin’s neck. Quentin’s chest grows warm as he tries to will his heart to calm down. “It’s okay,” Eliot whispers, “Nothing to worry about anymore.” He quirks his eyebrows almost playfully—though the same, confusing look in his eyes doesn’t fade, what  _ is _ that—and lets his palm lay flat against Quentin’s jawline. “I’m okay, Q.” His thumb dances along the corners of Quentin’s cheek. “Okay?” 

Quentin nods. 

“Okay.” 

Eliot’s eyes dart between Quentin’s, before a careful curve appears on his lips, and he leans in. “Are  _ you _ okay?” 

“Never better.” It’s an auto response. Like his brain’s still working on autopilot and doesn’t know that it’s time to land. Time to react. 

“Q.” It’s quiet, but still holds so much weight. An entire lecture in a single syllable. Quentin shouldn’t know him so well. Shouldn’t be able to tell what he’s fucking trying to say all with a single syllable. He doesn’t have that right. Eliot didn’t want—

He pulls away a little, swallowing. “Don’t Q me,” He murmurs. “I’m fine.” 

Eliot scoffs. “Everyone knows fine doesn’t mean fine.” He pulls Quentin back in with gentle hands, and leans his forehead against his. “You don’t have to be okay.” 

Quentin’s heart freezes in his chest as the words register. Because it’s just as familiar as the perplexing look in Eliot’s eyes. It’s the anthem of their life together. Of Eliot being there for Quentin during his episodes. Of holding him in front of the fire, and raking his fingers through his hair, and telling him stories of what their friends were doing and—

He exhales shakily. He  _ can’t take it. _

He’d been able to control it before. Right after everything. Looking Eliot in the eyes hadn’t been a challenge, because it was so easy, but ignoring the wave of emotion that crashed over him like a wave every time  _ had _ been. But he’d been able to keep it at bay. Pretend that he didn’t just wish Eliot would kiss him again. Pretend that he wasn’t so caught up in where they’d been that he couldn’t give two shits about the quest. 

But Eliot’s been gone, and here he fucking is. And Quentin doesn’t understand the look in his eyes.

And all he wants.

All he  _ fucking _ wants—

He tries to pull away again, gentle to avoid any alarms in Eliot’s head going off, but Eliot holds tight. 

“El . . .” 

He trails off, and neither of them fight to fill the silence. 

But, then, “Do you remember what I said? When I broke through?” 

“Which time?” 

Eliot rolls his eyes, “The first time, dumb ass.”

God, how could he forget? Never. He’s never going to forget the shift in Eliot’s eyes. He’s never going to forget, ‘ _ Fifty years. Who gets proof of concept like that _ ?’ or ‘ _ Peaches and plums, motherfucker. I’m alive in here. _ ’ The way his entire world shattered and glued itself back together all in the course of thirty seconds. “Couldn’t forget if I tried,” He says, soft. And he wouldn’t. 

Especially not with Eliot looking at him with that same confusing look in his eyes. 

What  _ is _ that? 

He realizes his thumb has been stroking Eliot’s hip, when Eliot’s shirt rises, and Quentin’s greeted with a surprise warmth on his finger tips. He tries not to react. Tries not to freak out. Because he doesn’t want to freak Eliot out.

He’d forgotten how soft Eliot’s skin was. 

“Ever wonder why that’s what I used?” 

Quentin’s eyes slide shut, because he can’t take it anymore, and he shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to do with all of this feeling floating and shifting around in him. Doesn’t know how to make it manifest into something else. It’s not overwhelming, because he knows what  _ overwhelming _ actually entails, but. It’s something. And it’s gripping onto his heart, almost as tightly as the hand fisted in the lapels of his shirt. He wonders if it has anything to do with the warm press of Eliot’s knuckles to Quentin’s ribs. 

Probably. 

He’s always had a hard time catching his breath when Eliot’s around. It just took a while for him to understand why. And practically no time at all to understand that Eliot  _ doesn’t _ feel it.

Of course he’s wondered, though. Why he’d said proof of concept. When for so long, Quentin’s played that stupid conversation beneath the wedding arch out over and over again in his head. Eliot hadn’t believed in it. Hadn’t wanted them. This. It’s not a choice for Eliot. 

“No,” Quentin mutters, refusing to open his eyes. Because even now, he can’t lie to Eliot’s face if he’s looking him in the eye. “It was something that would make me believe so . . .” 

“Q.”

There it is again. That demanding syllable. He opens his eyes. Forces a fake smile. The one he reserves for moments like these; moments of pretending he’s okay so nobody else feels bad for how they feel. It doesn’t matter how Quentin feels, because Eliot’s back. He needs to focus on him. Not on how he feels about him.

“Eliot,” he tries for a mocking lilt, but it comes out too soft, and pained. He doesn’t want Eliot to feel bad about this. It’s not his fault he doesn’t love him. It’s not his fault that he’s been gone and that Quentin’s missed him so much that every breath he breathed while he was gone hurt so deeply his stomach ached. None of its Eliot’s fault. Quentin just has to get over himself. He has his best friend back. And if that’s all Eliot wants—not if—then that’s what Quentin’s going to give him. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Can’t we just get some sleep? I’m sure you’re tired and I—“

Eliot pulls away, just enough to duck down into Quentin’s line of sight. “Stop,” he says. “You’re not supposed to keep things from me, Q.” 

“Eliot. . .”

“Remember?” He tugs on Quentin’s shirt until Quentin finally darts his eyes up to look at him. “Fifty years. We didn’t work for no reason.” 

_ We only worked because you didn’t have a choice, _ he wants to shout it. Wants to pull away and remind Eliot that  _ Eliot’s _ the victim that he doesn’t have to play hero with Quentin. That  _ he’s _ supposed to be the one breaking down and Quentin’s supposed to be comforting him. Wants to beg him to stop reminding him of the life they had. Because it meant something different to them.

Because for Eliot it wasn’t having a choice.

Quentin swallows, clenching his jaw. He can’t. He moves to pull away, but Eliot holds tight, and a harsh little whimper forced its way out. “Eliot,” he says, voice choked off, “You should sleep. I—I need to—“

“You’re not getting it.” 

“Getting  _ what _ ?” He doesn’t mean to sound so exasperated. Doesn’t mean for the frustration to seep into the words so deeply that it’s practically palpable. 

“That I’m trying to tell you I love you. You  _ idiot _ .”

Quentin shakes his head. 

No.

He shakes it again, and again until he’s moving. Practically clawing at Eliot in his attempt to untangle them. His thumbnail scrapes against Eliot’s hip, the skin going rough beneath his hands as he struggles, and Eliot holds firm.

He manages to tug his shirt out from Eliot’s fingertips and shoves across the side of the bed. His chest heaves as he stares across the comforter and pillows at Eliot—Eliot who still has that fucking look in his eyes. What the fuck  _ is _ it?

He holds a hand out between them. “Eliot—“

“I know.” Eliot looks down at the bed, before sighing and sitting up, pushing himself up against the headboard. “You. Have every right to freak out. But please don’t run away.” He lets his head fall back gently, curls bunching up against the headboard. “I’m done running. I don’t want you to start.”

“What are you. . .” He trails off. 

Don’t hope. Don’t hope. Don’t hope.

His heart clenches.

Fuck.

Eliot lifts his hand and holds it out for him without looking at him. Quentin breathes in one, twice—and reaches out, wraps his fingers around Eliot’s, and lets out the third breath. The edges of Eliot’s mouth quirk, but he twists their hands around until he’s lacing their fingers together, and pulling.

“Eliot—“

“Please.” He finally twists his neck around to look at Quentin, and the looks there, deeper; desperate. And Quentin can’t say no, so he lets himself be pulled across the bed until they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder against the headboard, and Eliot’s holding Quentin’s hand in his lap. 

They don’t say anything for a few long moments. Just sit there, basking in the warmth, staring at the hideous wallpaper on the wall across from the bed.

Then, Eliot clears his throat, and laughs. It’s simple, barely a couple of huffs of air, but, he shakes his head and squeezes Quentin’s hand. “I knew this would be hard, but Jesus.” 

Quentin turns his head, ear squishing up against the headboard, to look at him. “What?” 

“It’s easier when it’s a memory of you.” He shakes his head and looks down at their hands. “I don’t know how you—Jesus, Q. I don’t think you understand how brave you are.” 

“I don’t under—Eliot what are you talking about?”

“You—“ he shakes his head again and turns to look up at Quentin. “You fucking terrify me.”

Quentin blinks. “I—“

Eliot locks heir eyes together, and brings their hands up, presses Quentin’s to his chest, holds it there. “There’s nobody that—“ he huffs our that laugh again and looks down at their hands. “I’ve got a  _ lifetime _ of traumatic memories, Q.”

He swallows and turns his gaze back up, looks at Quentin from beneath his eyelashes. “I’ve killed people. I’ve—lost people. I’ve done terrible things. I’ve hurt—I’ve stolen. I’ve done so many terrible things.” Quentin opens his mouth to reply, but Eliot shakes his head. “Wait, okay? Because I—I have to get this out.” 

“Okay?”

“I thought killing Logan was the big bad that would open the door, but no cigar. Thought beating up my childhood best friend for being gay—“

“Eliot—“

“Yeah. I know.” He squeezes Quentin’s hand again and looks down. “There’s a lot. But. None of those were—traumatic enough. To open the door.” 

What is he talking about?

“What door?”

“The door that lead me to you.”

Quentin’s gaze falls down to their hands. Eliot’s thumbing is brushing along the side of Quentin’s. “Eliot,” he murmurs, “I want to—to understand—“

“Turns out the worst thing I’ve ever done was reject you.” 

The breath easing out of Quentin’s lungs stops. 

“Wh—“ he blinks, lets the air stutter out, and then in a quiet, small voice, because he can’t dare himself to think what he’s thinking, “What?” 

“I lied.” Eliots voice is tinney and off. “When I said I—wouldn’t  _ choose _ you. When I said we didn’t want this.” 

Oh.

Eliot finally looks back up. 

_ That’s _ what it is. The look in his eyes. It’s the same one he’d had when Quentin kissed him for the first time.

Still.

“What—What are you—“

“I was  _ scared _ .” The word comes out heated, almost like he’s disgusted with himself, and he leans in closer. Quentin finds himself meeting him in the middle, their hands falling in between them as their temples meet. “Not of you—never of you. You—Jesus. You make me happy. And. I feel— not whole. That’s not the word. It’s more. So fucking much more—and that terrifies me, Q. How happy we’d be.”

Oh fuck. “Eliot—you were—“

“Stop.” His eyes dart up, but he doesn’t pull away. “I hurt you. Don’t say I didn’t, we both know I did. And you let me.” 

“I—“

Fuck, he had, hadn’t he? He’d let Eliot walk away.

But he wasn’t going to be the one who fought for something if it was one sided. How could he have known? He wasn’t going to try and guilt Eliot into it. Not if he didn’t want Quentin.

“But I’ve had. Time. To think. To realize what a fucking dick I’ve been—“

“You weren’t—“

“I was.” He says it firm, like there’s no argument and pulls away so he can turn and face Quentin full on. “I have been in love with you from the moment you asked me if you were hallucinating. I’ve watched you grow, fight, persevere—Q, you—you are  _ magnificent _ .” He closes his eyes. Squeezes them tight, and licks his lips. “And the day I snuffed out what we  _ could—should _ have been,” he opens his eyes, and there it is again, “I’ll never be able to make it up to you. But I want—“ he stops, shaking his head and looking down. 

Quentin holds his breath.

“What?” He asks, “what do you want?” Even his voice is quiet. He’s not even sure he’s asked the question, but Eliot looks back up at him—like his hearts being laid out before him.

“I want to say ‘you’ but I refuse to be a walking trashy romcom.”

A shocked little laugh forces its way out of Quentin’s chest and he squeezes Eliot’s hand. He tilts one shoulder. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“I’m okay with being a trashy romcom.” 

Eliot let’s go of Quentin’s hand with one of his, and reaches up to stroke Quentin’s cheek. “That’s because you’re an idiot.”

“But you love me?” He doesn’t mean to phrase it as a question but.

Eliot nods once, cupping his jaw. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I mean. Margo’s always first but—“

Quentin laughs, loud and outright, reaches up with his own free hand to pull Eliot into him. “Of course,” he laughs, before looking up. Locking their eyes together. He wants to lean in, but he needs to be sure.

Eliot’s flutter closed as his hand moves to cup the back of Quentin’s neck. Quentin let’s himself breathe him in for a beat, before he feels Eliot’s eye flicker open. “Are you going to kiss me or aren’t you, Coldwater?” 

Quentin tries not to smile. “Thought you were being the brave one.” 

Eliot huffs out a breath of air. “Fair enough,” he murmurs.

And then Eliot’s lips press against Quentin’s, dry and clumsy and familiar.

It’s like coming home.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
